


Keeping You in Sight (Even As I Wander)

by InMediasRes



Series: String of Fate [8]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Ballet, Brief Mentions of Eliot's childhood, Everybody Lives, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentions of Eliot's father, Mentions of Lewis Capaldi, Mentions of Mike McCormick, Mentions of Taylor Swift, Mentions of the Mosaic, Music, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29126250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMediasRes/pseuds/InMediasRes
Summary: Eliot goes to therapy and even when apart, he can't stop his feelings from revolving around Q, so he finally has to accept what he's been trying so desperately to deny:He's in love with Quentin Coldwater.Well, fuck.How is he supposed to fix this now?
Relationships: Alice Quinn & Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: String of Fate [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076294
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Keeping You in Sight (Even As I Wander)

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I find myself writing at 4/5am (edit: it's now 6am because my laptop decided to crash right when I was about to post this). I got sidetracked by the queliot evermore event, so this is a little later than I had planned, but ah well. No regrets :')
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this one, and honestly? I've been having an insane amount of fun writing things from Eliot's POV in this series, and he was one of the ones I was worried about writing.
> 
> There are a couple of balletic terminology in this one (not a lot though), so I've put them in the end notes :)
> 
> Title taken from Can't Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon

* * *

Eliot’s been in therapy for a week, and he’s _exhausted_.

Mentally, physically, just… Exhausted. It was so _draining_. And yes, he hadn’t expected it to be easy (he wouldn’t have put it off for so long if it was), but he hadn’t expected it to be so _difficult_ either. Turns out, he had a hell of a lot to unpack. His therapist – a fun, witty woman named Sheila whom he actually liked, but also would not let him get away with any of his bullshit – eased him in lightly; she got him to open up about Quentin, and that had been the _easy_ part. Eliot basically waxed poetry about Quentin, about all the reasons why he likes him, why he misses him. That Quentin deserving better was one of the reasons why he was in therapy in the first place.

And then that opened up a Mike-sized can of worms, a can that Eliot really, really didn’t want to open so soon. So he’d talked about his childhood instead, about Indiana and his ballet classes, and harvest season at the farm. And Sheila took the change of topic in stride, not saying anything but just letting him speak as she listened and occasionally took notes. And Eliot – he found he really liked that. He liked the fact that she just let him ramble, that she didn’t try to lead the conversation, or ask him to go into more detail.

And when his session ended, Eliot found he was surprised. He hadn’t expected to talk so much, and for so long. Didn’t think he’d be able to. And… it was both enlightening and depleting. He’d had to take a few moments to gather himself before he felt he had the strength to thank Sheila and walk out of her office.

It didn’t matter that that had only been his first session.

But Margo was waiting for him back at the Cottage after, and they’d gotten coffee and relaxed in her room running old episodes of Buffy. And Margo – God, he loves her – not once poked or prodded him to tell her about his sessions. For her, just knowing that he was making the effort was enough. It had always been enough. And that – that was a revelation.

He brought that up in his next session later that week, and that opened up the floor for the difficult what-Eliot-Waugh-deserves conversation. Turns out, what Eliot Waugh deserves is to live his life, like really live it, without the fear that had permeated him throughout his childhood. That had been a hard pill to swallow; that he was trying his best (to be honest, to be himself) and that was all anyone could ask for. Anyone who asked for more than that (his father, Mike), for more than what Eliot could give (for Eliot to hide his true self in order to fit in) didn’t deserve to be in his life. That getting rid of toxic people, whether they be family or friends or partners, was a form of self-care, and it was _okay_.

It was okay to not be okay. It was okay to ask for help sometimes.

For the first time since the whole Mike fiasco, Eliot cried. Like, actual full on, ugly sobbing.

And Sheila – she’d been great about it. Had let him cry it out; all his pent-up shame, his self-loathing, his guilt, and only just silently handed him tissues as she waited him out.

Everything came out much easier after that. Eliot had walked out of that room that day feeling ten times lighter than he had ever felt in his entire life.

* * *

The next week, Eliot started working on his showcase dance. His time was now split between therapy, his showcase, and coffee with Margo; he barely had time to think about anything else. But he was always there in the back of his mind – Quentin. Sometimes, when he was taking a much needed break from his dance, he would briefly think about what Quentin was doing; was he working on his showcase too? Was he having coffee with Julia like how he would have coffee with Margo? But then he would shake his head to clear his thoughts and get back to work. Sometimes, Margo would join him in the studio, and she would work on her theatre play while he danced, and it was fun, and relaxed, and everything Eliot currently needed.

He still dreamed about his earnest brown eyes and easy smile though.

* * *

It came as a surprise when he got a text from an unknown number one day during one of his practise sessions in the studio.

_Unknown_

_Today 9:31 AM_

_Hi, are you free today around lunch? Is it okay if I come round for coffee?_

Eliot blinks blankly at his screen, thumbs hovering over his keyboard. Was this some guy he had drunkenly flirted with and given his number and then promptly forgotten about the next day? He couldn’t think who else would have his number. And then –

_Unknown_

_Today 9:33 AM_

_It’s Alice. Quinn. Alice Quinn. Quentin’s friend?_

And then directly after –

_Sorry_.

That doesn’t stop Eliot from staring at his screen, nonplussed. _Alice Quinn?_ Why was _Alice_ texting him? Better yet, how did she get his number? Sure, she hung out with them at the Cottage parties, but other than that… He doesn’t think he’s ever really spoken to her. She mostly stuck with Quentin and Penny, and Julia and Kady by extension, but… Alice? Really? Why did she want to have coffee with _him?_

He types out his reply:

_Eliot_

_Today 9:34 AM_

_Sure. I’ll be around the Cottage at 12_

Short and sweet. Not that he particularly needed to be sweet with someone he barely knew, but she was friends with Quentin, and Quentin wouldn’t appreciate him being mean to his friends. Besides, Eliot was really trying here – trying to turn over a new leaf, so to speak. So. Being nice it was.

Without waiting for a reply, he leaves his phone back in his bag and begins stretching. His dance is almost finished, and after that – practise, practise, practise.

And two hours later, at half past eleven, Eliot does a cool down before packing up and leaving the studio. He just has enough time for a quick shower and a change before Alice is due to drop by.

For some reason, he’s feeling nervous. He figures that out after his shower and he finds himself in the kitchen, reorganising the jars in the cupboards; a habit he’s had since his early childhood. He starts making the coffee, so Alice wouldn’t have to wait and it’d be nice and hot for them to just immediately sit down and – talk, about whatever it is she wanted to talk about. He takes his phone out – briefly considers texting Margo – then slips it back into his pocket.

Once the kettle is boiled, he brews the coffee into two mugs on autopilot. It isn’t until he’s already made one mug (with milk and sugar) that he realises – fuck, he doesn’t know how Alice likes her coffee. He stares down at the two mugs – why is he so bloody nervous? – considers pouring the one he made down the sink, but before he can do so, the Cottage door opens and Alice steps through.

Eliot immediately goes into ‘good host’ mode and smiles, gesturing her over.

“Hi. Alice. I made coffee but then realised I didn’t know how you took yours, so. How do you like your coffee?”

She smiles at him and takes the mug he’s already made, with a “Thank you, I like mine with milk and sugar.”

Noted.

Eliot takes the other mug and adds milk and sugar to it too – seems like Bambi’s the only one of them who likes her coffee black. He leads Alice to one of the couches in the lounge area, and they both sit down, Alice smoothing out her skirt after placing her mug on the small table, and then – silence. Eliot stares into his mug, a long finger tapping against its side. He realises he’s tapping out the rhythm of his dance steps, and makes an effort to stop. Now is not the time to be thinking about his showcase.

“So. Alice,” he starts. Takes a sip, lowers his mug. “How’d you get my number?”

She lets out a nervous laugh, reaches over to pick up her own mug again. Also takes a sip. “I swiped it from Quentin.”

Eliot’s brows rise in mild surprise; that was not what he had expected but. Okay. Alice is prone to looking at people’s contacts. Noted. Again.

“He still has you under ‘Plum’, you know. If that means anything.”

Eliot almost chokes on his coffee, splutters a bit. “I, um. I think that’s just his nickname for me?” It comes out as a question. Almost a squeak. Truth is, Eliot hadn’t even known that was his name in Quentin’s contacts.

More silence, and then –

“I like him, you know.”

Eliot glances at her, but she’s staring at the coffee table, a pink tinge to her cheeks. She’s clutching at her mug tightly.

“Quentin, I mean. I like him. But he’d never go for me, not when he can have you.”

And – oh.

_Oh_.

Alice _likes_ Quentin.

All of a sudden, he feels embarrassed. How hadn’t he noticed that before? He takes a hasty sip, lets it burn down his throat. _Jesus_.

“You broke his heart, you know.”

_Fucking hell._ He was not drunk enough for this. He was not _equipped_ for this. Did this count as shovel talk? Was he getting the shovel talk? Was that not a bit late, to give him this talk now _after_ he had already broken up with Quentin? And from _Alice?_

“I know.” Quiet. Accepting.

Alice gives a nod, tucks her hair behind her ear. _So much like Quentin_.

“I know Q really well,” Alice starts again, drawing Eliot’s attention back to her face. She’s looking at him now, a touch of sadness, of resignation, in her smile. “And if anyone is messy, it is him.”

Eliot has to let out a chuckle, because. It’s true. Quentin is messy. A disaster, really. But so is Eliot. Probably much more than Quentin, if he cared to look harder (he doesn’t. He already knows he is).

“He’s pretty in love with you,” Alice continues, staring at Eliot for another second before looking away, back at the coffee table. Like she can’t bear the thought of unrequited love on her end.

And Eliot – Eliot’s mind flashes back to that party, to Quentin’s drunken confession. And then even further back; to their first kiss, their first date. That week at the Mosaic. And because, even now while in therapy, he’s still in the habit of self-sabotaging he says, “I’m not sure that I’d say that.” Deflecting, even now. Running. Always running.

Alice turns to search his face, and then gives a nod like she found what she was looking for. “I would.”

And that. That breaks Eliot inside; her quiet, sure tone. Accepting her role as friend to her own love, while confessing that very love to the guy who broke his heart. And his own heart aches, just a little, because Alice is actually a nice person, now that he thinks about it, and she probably could have made Quentin happy, if she had been the one he’d fallen in love with first. And he’s having to blink back tears because he may have just lost one of the most beautiful things in his life, and he’s not sure he could ever repair it or get it back.

He takes a shaky breath and reaches out a hand to lay it over one of Alice’s, and she looks up at him – sad, accepting, warm. And he offers his own unsteady smile, squeezes her hand.

“I plan on fixing it. Try to win him back. I just don’t know how.”

Alice takes a few contemplative sips of her coffee, lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “I think,” she starts. Stops. Gives a hum before starting again. “The one thing Quentin is sure about is his sexuality –” Eliot nods, because he knows that’s true “– and I think. What he wants is someone to just. Not be scared to be _with_ him. If that makes sense.”

She doesn’t look at Eliot as she says this, but Eliot understands anyway: _Quentin wants someone who isn’t scared to love him_. And well – he deserves that, really. So all he replies with is, “I’m working on it.”

They sit in companionable silence as they finish their coffees, and Alice washes her own mug despite Eliot’s protests, and then she picks up her backpack and thanks him for his time. Like she was in an interview. And Eliot just smiles and nods, holds the door open for her so she can step out.

But then she turns back to look at him, eyes going steel gray. “If you fuck it up a second time, I won’t hold myself back.”

_If you fuck up with Quentin again, I’ll swoop in and take your place_.

She doesn’t stick around to see Eliot’s jaw drop, both in surprise and admiration in equal measure. And once the door is closed and he’s back in his room, he takes his phone out and hesitates for a second over his text messages before adding Alice to his contact list.

* * *

The next week, the week of the showcases before they broke off for the holidays, brings Eliot another uncomfortable situation, though this one was less of a surprise.

Julia stormed into the Cottage, demanding to see him.

Todd had rushed upstairs and had knocked frantically on Margo’s door to relay the news before Julia stalked in, which – _rude_. Both Margo and Eliot sat up from their comfortable positions on Margo’s bed having been watching Netflix on his laptop, as Julia all but slammed the door in Todd’s face.

“You are _such a fucking dick_ , Eliot Waugh.” Julia’s voice comes out tight, controlled – restrained fury.

Eliot exchanges a glance with Margo before warily watching the five-foot-something of barely contained ball of rage at the foot of the bed. “Uh. What?” He intellectually says. Because – what? What has he done now?

Julia digs in her bag before finding whatever she was looking for and throwing it in his direction. It hits him in the chest – _Jesus ow, what the fuck Julia_ – before flopping onto the bed in front of him.

“Watch that, and then fucking fix whatever you did to Quentin. I am _not_ watching him go down any further on this spiral, and I will _not_ let you undo all the hard work he’s done to get to where he is now.”

With one last glare, she marches back out, angrily shutting the door behind her. There’s silence for a few seconds before Margo settles back on her bed, a smirk playing at her lips.

“Well,” she drawls, “that was certainly interesting. And a little hot.”

Eliot snorts, unfreezing from his bewildered stupor, and glances down at whatever Julia had thrown at him. A USB. Grey and black in colour, slim, unassuming. He picks it up, but nothing is attached; no note, no card, nothing to tell him what it contained.

Margo plucks it from his grasp and neatly slots it into his laptop.

“Bambi!” he protests, reaching for the USB.

She moves the laptop out of his reach. “What?”

“It could have a virus on it! Don’t just put unknown stuff onto my laptop!”

“Why would Julia put a virus on your laptop?”

“Oh, I don’t know… Maybe because I broke her best friend’s heart and apparently sent him on a spiral?”

Margo raises her brow at him before clicking a couple of times on his laptop. “It’s a video,” she says mildly after a few moments.

He sits back against the headboard and leans in to watch. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.

Eliot wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but he hadn’t been expecting a short film of – well, of _them_. Him and Quentin. Julia had compiled photos and short clips of them two together; short clips of them walking hand in hand on the street, photos of Eliot kissing Quentin’s forehead, of Quentin kissing _Eliot’s_ cheek. Clips of them drunkenly dancing together at a Cottage party, followed by a photo of them napping on the couch in the sun’s rays. A photo of Quentin looking at Eliot like he hung the moon and stars, and a photo of Eliot tucking Quentin’s hair behind his ear; and the look in Photo-Eliot’s eyes is so soft and tender, so _loving_ , that Eliot has to look away from the screen for a moment because. Because how could he have ever denied he is in love with Quentin Coldwater? When the evidence is right there for him to see? _God_.

And then photos of them at Arielle’s Mosaic started cropping up: Eliot and Quentin kneeling side by side as they placed brightly coloured tiles down; a photo of them during one of their picnic dinners that Julia and Margo would occasionally bring over – sitting on a blanket, clinking cups together as they smiled – a photo of Eliot laughing, his head thrown back, as Quentin smiled up at him like Julia and Margo weren’t there at all. A clip of Eliot throwing an arm around Quentin’s shoulders as he tickled his side with his other hand, Quentin trying to squirm away but unable to stop laughing as Margo is rolling her eyes in fond exasperation in the background.

And Eliot – a fleeting memory flits through his head, a single thought from the Mosaic of _I could spend an entire life with this man and never get tired_ – Eliot scrubs a hand over his face because. Because that had been a thought he hadn’t been ready to deal with at the time, a month ago, but the thing was – _the thing was_ – Eliot knows it is true this time. That, despite having only known Quentin for a couple of months, Eliot had fallen so hard and so fast, and so _deeply_ , that. That he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. And that had been terrifying, back then, which was why he had shoved it from his mind. But – but _now_ – he can accept the fact that _he is in love with Quentin Coldwater_ and. And.

Well.

And that Quentin may just be The One for him. As cheesy and cliché as that sounds.

The video closes with a photo of Eliot staring out across a river with a bridge in the background, immersed in the soft glow of the sunset – it was their second date together, a picnic at Bow Bridge in Central Park that Quentin had organised for them. Eliot wondered when Quentin had taken it. _Was this entire video a reflection of how Q sees him?_ And then the credits roll on Julia’s little film; where she had gotten some of the photos and clips (herself and from Quentin’s phone), and the music – Taylor Swift’s ‘Mine’, covered by Quentin, and _Christ_ – Julia was not holding back, was she? God, she barely even said anything to him, and yet. He could feel this video (the _song choice_ ) stabbing into him, right where it hurt most.

“El –” Margo starts, reaching to close the video.

Before she could move his mouse to the little red ‘x’ in the corner, Eliot hits play again.

* * *

The night of his showcase, Eliot was calm and collected. Only the slight tremors running through his hands belied the nervousness he was feeling.

Margo was sitting with him backstage, though she was typing – _taptaptap_ – away on her phone, a little smirk on her face. Eliot was half-afraid to ask; when it came to Bambi, some things were better left untouched.

All of a sudden, she pockets her phone and jumps down from the pile of crash mats she had been sitting on. “Gotta run a quick errand, I’ll be back before the showcase.” She blows a kiss at him before strutting off.

Eliot frowns at her back as she walks out of the dressing room he was sharing with the other male dancers in his class, but he’s soon distracted by a guy – Eric – prompting him to join his group in stretching. And that takes his mind off his dance until the showcase starts, and Eliot watches as one by one, the men in his class are called onto stage. Eliot stays in the large dressing room stretching and warming up, absently walking himself through his steps.

When Eliot is called to the wings in preparation for his dance, he bounds out of the room and up the small set of steps to stand in the curtains, his long legs getting him there in what feels like seconds. It’s not his first showcase, of course, but that doesn’t mean he never gets nervous about it before he’s up. And then he’s being called up on stage, and he steps out and to the little podium in the corner. He clears his throat and throws one of his winning smiles out across the audience.

“My name is Eliot Waugh, and my piece is about… Well, it’s about mending shattered things. It represents all the things you can and may hold, now or in your future, that have the potential to shatter at the slightest movement, the wrong word. But most of all, it also represents repairing those things that you shattered. The things you do to repair what you broke may take small steps, but in time, there is hope that you can recover what you lost. I call it Minor Mending. Thank you for your time.”

Eliot gives a little bow towards the audience before heading back into the wings and then into the middle of the stage before the curtains are pulled aside. His dance starts with him kneeling, before he flows up onto his feet. Eliot closes his eyes and lets himself feel the music, allows the soft, delicate tones of the piano drift through him, carrying him into leaps and jumps and leading him into pirouettes* and small, graceful footwork. He thinks about the music, his feelings, everything with Quentin, and pours it all into his dance; it guides him through his allegro** section – _and he sees Quentin stumbling towards him in awe for the first time; that first party, their first kiss, their first night together, their first date_ – and then leads him into an imagined pas de deux***, which had been difficult to choreograph solo – _and he sees himself dancing with Quentin at Cottage parties, sees them in the week at the Mosaic, all the time they spent together cuddled in Eliot’s bed as they watched films and binge watched tv shows_ – to finally, slowly, tenderly escort him into a waltz – _and he sees the heartbreak he caused, the tears he’s shed in therapy, Alice’s beautiful sad smile, Julia’s incriminating evidence of their love_ – and his dance, full of all the raw and tender feelings he’s struggled to say out loud, comes to a close with him back on his knees and hands outstretched, his bruised heart held up for the world to see.

Elito waits a few moments to catch his breath before he elegantly rises to his feet and takes his bow, bigger and flashier than the more formal one he had given earlier - a révérence**** to thank his audience - and when he lifts his head back up, his eyes catch onto Quentin sitting there right in the front row. His eyes widen in a split-second shock, but he still somehow manages to keep his poise despite his knees going weak and his heart trying to beat out of his chest. He casts a glance back out to the rest of the audience and takes another bow before walking offstage on shaky legs, finally collapsing against the wall backstage and sliding to the floor. Eliot groans as he tilts his head back onto the wall and closes his eyes, ignoring the people passing by for the time being. He hadn't expected to see Quentin here tonight - had he been here for him? If so, _why?_ After everything he had done to him? Surely not. He must have been here to see someone else. Quentin doesn't want anything to do with him right now, and Eliot can't blame him.

He lets out a sigh as he rubs his hands over his face somewhat in despair.

“That bad, huh?” a voice says above him.

Eliot removes his hands to blink up through his curls, seeing Eric smiling sympathetically at him. “Something like that,” he mutters, giving a wry smile.

Eric pats his shoulder supportively before heading towards the wings, and Eliot vaguely thinks that he must be on soon. He’s not sure how long he sits there before he finally decides he’s had enough of wallowing in self-pity and picks himself up from the floor to head back into the dressing room to change. He couldn’t wait to get back to the Cottage for a hot shower and his bed.

* * *

“Come _on_ El, you’re going to make us late.”

Margo is frowning at him – not quite glaring, but she’s close – with her arms crossed as he dawdles around his room looking for an excuse not to go.

“I didn’t ask to go anyway,” Eliot huffs as, seeing no other choice but to do as she says, he picks up his scarf and his long coat and puts them on as slowly as he dared.

Margo was dragging him by the proverbial ear to _Quentin’s_ showcase, despite having not been invited. He knew there was no way Quentin would want _him_ there because – why would he? Why would he want the person who broke his heart to show up ‘for support’? And yet, Margo insisted on it anyway.

And so they went.

And Eliot – he remembers Quentin’s first showcase, the mini one they held for first years back at the end of September; remembers his low, lovely voice singing, his fingers as they skilfully strummed the guitar, how hot and bothered he had gotten imagining those fingers _somewhere else_. And he has to shove those memories away for the time being, because they’re not the reasons why he is here this time – actually, he’s not entirely sure _why_ he is here this time, but Margo had wanted to go (because after all _she_ is still friends with Quentin even though, to his knowledge, she hadn’t been hanging out with him at all since the break-up) and she had wanted Eliot to go with her.

They make it just in time for Quentin coming on stage, which makes Eliot a little bit guilty – he hadn’t wanted to make Margo late, not really. But at least they made it on time for Q coming on, even if just barely.

And Eliot is immediately captivated by the man on stage. Quentin has his hair tied back into a small bun – okay, which was A Thing now – but he was still trying to hide behind the strands of hair he hadn’t been able to keep back. And God, Eliot _yearned_. How he longed to push those strands back to see his face, his whisky-coloured eyes, and capture his lips in a leisurely kiss, apologise for everything he’s put him through in the past few weeks.

But then Quentin starts his set and Christ – Eliot had missed his voice. His low, soothing timbre, the confidence when he’s singing, the clear pleasure warming his tone because he was doing something he loves. Eliot missed all of it, and he has to blink up at the ceiling briefly to clear the blurriness from his eyes, with Quentin’s voice washing over him, curling around him with a comfort he didn’t deserve. Margo, her arm still looped through his, gives his bicep a squeeze and he slowly exhales, steeling himself to watch the rest of Quentin’s set.

At some point, Julia found them in the audience and made her way towards them, surprisingly taking the spot on Eliot’s other side. She doesn’t even look at him, but she does give him a small nudge – encouraging, reassuring, teasing. A little sharp though, letting him know that she still hasn’t forgiven him, and likely wouldn’t unless _Quentin_ forgave him. And yet. Eliot took some comfort in that; he didn’t deserve forgiveness right off the bat, and he was _going to work for it_. Julia is a good friend.

But then. Halfway through his set, Eliot knows Quentin sees him. He sees the shock in his eyes, in the way he lightly coughs away from the microphone, hand quickly covering his mouth to make sure he hadn’t spat out any of the water he had been drinking. And Eliot sees the way he gathers himself to start the next half, the way he takes a steadying breath to compose himself – and a new wave of love laps over him, because Quentin is so fucking brave and he doesn’t even know it – before he starts strumming again.

And Eliot has to pay attention, because – because the song choices sound as if they were picked _for him_. The sad, melancholic but nostalgic tones of Taylor Swift’s ‘All Too Well’, the raw longing in Lewis Capaldi’s lyrics of ‘Someone You Loved’ – they all sink into Eliot with sharp spikes, twisting the knife he had put there himself. And a regret so heavy weighs him down that he’s not sure he could ever swim back up again; made all the worse when he sees Quentin’s lips quirk into a sad smile at him, catches the shine of his eyes that tell him he’s holding back tears.

And the way he rushes off stage – God, Eliot isn’t sure if he can fix this at all. But he has to try. He _will_ try. Even if Quentin will never forgive him in the end, at least Eliot will be able to walk away knowing he had tried to make it up to him. He would spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to him if given the chance (and there it is again – the idea of _the rest of his life with Quentin_ ).

He untangles himself from Margo’s arm and hurries backstage, hoping to catch Quentin there. He isn’t sure what he will say to him when faced with his regret, but. But he couldn’t just _leave_.

Except.

By the time he had fought his way through the crowd to the quietness of backstage, Quentin was already gone, and Eliot is left standing in the hallway alone.

**Author's Note:**

> *Pirouette - A non-travelling turn/spin in one spot on one leg, usually of one or more rotations.
> 
> **allegro - Used to usually describe brisk, lively (happy) motions. Can also be used to refer to all jumps in ballet, regardless of tempo.
> 
> ***pas de deux - "Step of two": A dance duet, usually performed by a female and a male dancer.
> 
> ****révérence - A bow/curtsy/grand gesture of respect to acknowledge the teacher & pianist after class, or the audience & orchestra after a performance.
> 
> These are just the general meaning of these terms to keep it simple (if I get any wrong, do let me know. I haven't done ballet in almost 2 years now, so I'm a bit rusty).
> 
> Much love <3


End file.
